“Because it takes a red-headed brigand to cook it,” suggested Jack, dodging out of Pat’s reach.
“Never you mind the name,” Pat replied. “Get the dry wood and I’ll broil a steak that will melt in the mouth.”
“That old canned stuff?” asked Frank.
“Get the wood,” ordered Pat, “and I’ll show you.”
There were a few dead trees—the sole reminders of a former forest fire in that green valley—close at hand, and the wood was soon gathered and placed in a great pile near two rocks which Pat had rolled to within a yard of each other.
“Here!” Jack called out, as Pat transferred the whole supply to the space between the stones, “there’s enough fuel there for a week’s cooking. Quit it!”
“My son,” Pat replied, with a provoking air of patronage, “what you don’t know about broiling a steak à la brigand would make a congressional library.”
While the wood was burning down to coals, Pat cut a green slip about an inch in diameter at the bottom and peeled and smoothed it nicely.
“Is that to be used to enforce the eating of the steak?” asked Frank, winking at the others.
“To keep you from gorging yourselves,” Pat replied, going on with his work.